


What the Snake Saw, The Owl Said, and The Raccoon Read

by badAquatic



Series: Short Original Fiction [3]
Category: Elvish Americana, Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: Fae & Fairies, Illustrated, M/M, Seelie Court, Shapeshifting, Unseelie Court, Urban Fantasy, transgender character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-30
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2018-10-25 22:49:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10774113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: Jafaris is many things: a racoon, a fae, a barefoot scholar, and well aware that he made a mistake by not leaving New England for sunny pastures...namely Florida. With winter on the horizon, things are looking to be just as miserable as last year was. Or, that's what he initially thought...until a forest lord arrives on the land he inhabits.





	1. Chapter 1

 

This was a grand forest. It extended into where Interstate 91 had been, sprawling down and following the Connecticut River closely—like a mother and cub. Then it was chopped away, putting in every a growing town needs. Roads. Highways. Byways. Water treatment plants. Junkyards and landfills.  That steel-backed monster, Modernization, ate up everything it could, swallowing down until the forest was a small forest on the edge of a landfill.

This is not a story about landfills or the junkyards next to them. This is about a raccoon, or this is about where the raccoon lives.

The raccoon inhabits this small forest. The wind blows and his home is blasted with the stench of yesterday’s bad milk with a hint of spilled gasoline. Long ago, the city merged the landfill and the junkyard to save on premium space, but that didn’t make the mess any better. Not that the raccoon complained much of the smell. You get used to it after a while and he is far past the ‘a while’ stage of living in the forest.

Smells are not on the raccoon’s mind. Winter is, with its ever looming dread of frost and freezing rain. All animals dread winter but this raccoon especially, for winter has nothing but bitter memories and the knifelike hunger pains from there being too many people in the small forest and too little food.

 _Fuck New England,_ he thinks as he scrounges through the small forest, _I should have gone to Florida when I had the chance._

This is not a raccoon. This is only a person in the skin of a raccoon, although that is also incorrect. It is better to say that this person looks like a raccoon most of the time and not a raccoon at other times, but that is a more complicated detail for later. For now, they are a raccoon. They are fifteen pounds of grey, black, and white fur and claws. They are scavenging in the small forest, trying to find ripe berries and grubs in an unusually chilled September. 

This raccoon is named Jafaris.

Jafaris goes deep into the small forest, further than he has ever had before. Eventually his exploration is uncovered when he finds grubs hiding in a fallen branch. It’s a treasure trove for a creature like him and he starts eating. He’s too far from home to carry it so all he can do is store it in his stomach and fat. He eats without a care in the world, tasting the bitter nutty flavor of the fat bugs.

He only stops eating when the air grows cold. Then the fog rolls in—thick, unnatural mist like that on haunted moorlands. The kind of fog that gives birth to banshees. Jafaris sees his breath, feels the prickle of magic on his fur, and he knows to hide. He scrambles inside the rotting log, squeezing his way in and pushing mold and spiders out his way. The log rocks but he fits his way in.

The mist is as thick as blood. Frost dusts his fur.

 _It can’t be winter. Not yet!_ Jafaris thinks.

There’s a hole in the top of the log. Jafaris peers through it and sees not some ape beast or swamp monster, but a man. The man has skin like fertile soil and his glamour works close to him, giving him a soft glow even in the chilled night. Long antlers sprout from his head, with long black hair braided around the prong. He wears armor, the uniform of a lifelong soldier who has just come off the battlefield. Wrapped around his shoulders is a cape of kudzu and ivy. There are scars moving around every inch of that handsome body. His eyes are bright green.

The magic that rolls off of him is old, like smelling thousand year old perfumed scents. It’s almost too powerful for Jafaris to bear and he has to fight the instinct to reveal himself or run from the presence of this man.

The forest lord does not notice him. He walks along his way, taking the fog with him. Once he leaves, Jafaris can fight the urge no long. He bolts from the log, running back to his den at the other end of the small forest. He’s had enough adventure for one night. He climbs up his tree and crawls in his hole. He counts his blessing to the spirits that he survived at all.

Jafaris is not alone with his fears. When daylight comes to the small forest, its inhabitants are wide awake.  They gather in the circle of trees that serves as their town square, a place for trade, gossip, and good food when someone is in a sharing mood.

“Did you feel that?” asks the skunk.

“Who _didn’t_ feel that?” asks the white-footed mouse.

“I didn’t feel it. I _saw_ it.” Jafaris says. He sits at the base of his tree, looking at the circle of animals. “It was old magic rolling off of him. I only felt something like that in the courts. Remember when those Midwest lords came in for the solstice party?”

“Who doesn’t? We were drunk as skunks then!” chuckles the timber rattlesnake.

“ _Hey_.” the skunk growls.

“Come off it.” snorts the rabbit, “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t like the bottle so much.”

“No more! No more!” The dramatic cry comes from above. A hoary bat flies down, lands on an elm branch above them.

“Calm down, you drama queen.” Says the milk snake.  

“A bat in the daytime? Are you stupid?” Jafaris growls, “If any of the scouts see that, they’ll realize we’re here!”

“I know, but this is important.” The hoary bat pants, “I was just speaking with my sister—you know, the one that’s mistress to Lord Sutton?”

“Get on with it!” Jafaris says.

“A-anyway,” the hoary bat squeaks, “She says that King Sheba had a guest last night at court. His name is Lord Selvans, or he’s _a_ Lord Selvans.”

“Lord Selvans?” The squirrel squinted skeptically at the other mammal. “But he’s dead! Or he _should_ be dead. There hasn’t been a Selvans on this land for nearly fifty years.”

“Who are the Selvans?” Jafaris asks.

“All I know is that they owned this land.” The squirrel looked around the small small forest. “Or what _was_ the land. Not sure where the manor once stood or the graves either. Not even Baba Yaga could find that.”

“Who’s that?” asks the milk snake.

There is a flutter of large winds above them. The small forest inhabitants go still and the shadow descends down. Even the hoary bat retreats, flying down  to the forest floor so that they may crane their head up. A great horned owl lands on a thick branch, being careful with its perching. It is twice as large as any other owl and its blind eyes are black and flecked with stars.

“I had thought that it was just idle gossip that a Selvans had returned to this forest.” says the owl, “Apparently this was not so.”

“Do you know of them then?” Jafaris asks. Unlike the others, he has no fear of the ancient owl or their ways.

The owl narrows their eyes.

“The Selvans ruled this land. They gave their third son to the service of the Seelie king,” the owl says, “and King Sheba sent that boy to become a man in war, cutting the throats of those sunfolk who would dare say a word against her. While he did this for a century, his family folded in on itself like a dying spider.”

“Was it a curse?” asks the milk snake.

“Was it sabotage?” asks the rattlesnake.

“Nothing so interesting.” snorts the owl, “It was a time and biology. The Selvans are from the homestead, immigrating here for the promise of property and prosperity. Those old bloods from the homelands aren’t hardy enough to live in the colonies like we mixed bloods. The family came to illness, the other sons and daughter either went their way—to different territories or back to the homestead—but they abandoned this land all in the same. And now Lord Selvans, the remaining Lord Selvans, returns to find his ancestral lands shrunken and villein squatters instead of the servants who were tasked to care for it.”

The others are hushed but Jafaris is anxious, ever-ready to chomp at the bit. He hates the owl for drip-feeding them knowledge while the others are slack-jawed just for having one amongst them to speak so well.

“So he’s a veteran.” Jafaris shrugs. “Big deal. What I want to know is if he’ll kick us off his land now that he’s back.”

“That, I can’t say for certain.” The owl says, ruffling their feathers in irritation. “Either way, those that can move should. Seelie lords are not civilized evictors.”

With that said, the owl takes off back into the sky. It was unknown where they rested in the small forest, as no one sought them out. The owl was an outlier in their community, circling it like the colony’s moon and planet. 

There is anxious talking following the owl’s words. Those that can leave make their plans of separation. Families debate if they will stay together or join others, weighing their options by the age and romantic situations of the children. Those children who are already coupled off may remain, or go with spouse or spouses elsewhere. It is the way of things after all. Lowly people such as them live their lives like bottles in the sea: containing everything important and constantly moving.

Jafaris doesn’t entertain the idea of relocation. He has one alternative and he would rather not dwell on that dark path. Instead, he barters with those who are leaving to take a portion of the food they cannot carry and translates packages. Those who can read (and they are few and far between) don’t know the language of the humans and don’t know the difference between what is candy and what is detergent.

Jafaris works on his stores of food in his tree home. Its not enough to get him through the winter and if September’s cold tells him anything, it is that it will only get worse. Everyone else in the small forest has the same priorities with their storage, having a special hiding place in each of their dens for their food. Sometimes, Jafaris wishes he had been given the skin of a bear or groundhog so that he could hibernate for the winter. Even the snakes burrow deep and go motionless, while the rest of the lowlies scramble.

Jafaris prefers not to mentally linger on the injustice. He travels out to the edge of where the small forest meets the landfill and collects the freshly dumped newspapers that often blows that way. He uses it to insulate his tree, plastering it onto the walls by chewing gumweed and using the sap. He was preoccupied with his work, only to be interrupted by a visitor.

“Jafaris!”

The raccoon climbed up to his hole and peeked out. A rattlesnake looked up at him, holding a paper in its jaw.

Jafaris only has scowls for the sight of this creature. “Mauris, I told you to never bother me again. Just because we live in the same area doesn’t mean we have to see each other.”

The rattlesnake blinks and spits out the paper, only so that they may speak more clearly. “Mauris? No, I’m Taccarra.” Jafaris snorts and they add, “I’m a milk snake and he’s a rattlesnake. Can’t you tell the difference between us?”

“No.” Jafaris grunts. As far as he knew, snakes all sounded the same and looked alike. He had no idea if Taccarra and Mauris were of the same brood or just close in appearance. He’d rather not deal with uppity snakes at all. “What do you want?”

“You read mayfly scratching, right?” Taccarra asks, “I’d like to learn too!”

“And why should I do that?” Jafaris asks, “I make a cozy business reading things for you bunch. If I teach one of you, then I’m out of a job.”

“Well, yeah, but not right now.” Taccarra says, “I don’t know anything so it’ll take a long time. Plus,”—the milk snake’s body wavered—“who knows how long we’ll be here, what with this lord and all. I can’t read nothing. Not even our sunfolk scratches.”

Such ignorance makes Jafaris’ fur itch. He scratches idly, but keeps his eye on the snake. “You can’t read at all?”

“Nah. My fosters didn’t have the time.” Taccarra says with a lazy wobble that can be interpreted as a shrug. “By the time they found me, they’d been pushed off the land in a raid. Spent the next four years wandering about--”

“Spare me the details.” sighs Jafaris, “Just come up quickly. I don’t have all day.”

Jafaris then climbs back into his hole. He sits in the corner and waits for Taccarra to slither up the tree, digging his muscles into the crevices of the bark and angling his scales to make the journey easier. Eventually, Taccarra throws himself through the hole, landing on the paper covered floor of Jafaris’ burrow.

“Its smaller in here than I thought…” Taccarra mumbles.

“Well, excuse me for not living in a fancy manor, my lord.” Jafaris says, “Maybe I’ll just pop on down to the Seelie court and ask King Sheba for a tract of land. I’m sure she has plenty just lying around.”

“I’m just surprised!” Taccarra huffs, “Trees are so big! You’d think there would be more room inside.”

“Only through intense labor and I’d rather put my hands to other use.” Jafaris says.

He digs around in the debris that litters the floor—bones picked clean and bits of fur from previous meals. There’s little motivation to keep clean when you wear the skin of an animal all day. Amongst the debris he pulls out a black marker. The stink of it is awful but its yet to run out. He goes to a papered wall of his den and writes the Seelie alphabet.

“I’ll teach you the Seelie alphabet.” Jafaris says, “That way you still learn and I’m not out of a job.”

Taccarra flops on the floor, curling in on himself like an annoyed knot.

“Why should I learn that?” he grumbles, “I’m not a noble.”

“Listen, scales.” Jafaris sighs, “When you get caught by scouts—and you will because we’re all destined to at some point—they might take you to a court and wave papers in your face that you can sign. You should know if those papers spell your doom or your sanctuary.”

“Won’t the scouts just kill me?”

“If you’re lucky, they will. Now, will you learn this or not?”

“I guess so. I’m here anyways.”

Out of the few students Jafaris has had, Taccarra is not the brightest but they are the most eager to learn. Empty bowls are easier to fill after all and unlike Mauris, they don’t prod and poke at Jafaris’ past just for the sake of gossip. They study until the sky turns orange-red from the sunset and Jafaris’ senses become more alert.

“We’ll end this session today. I have to go hunting.” Jafaris says.

“Is that a good idea?” Taccarra asks. The raccoon scowls at him and Taccarra sighs, “I know we have to make it seem like we’re regular animals, but there’s a Seelie lord out there. He could catch you and…well, he would do a lot worse than the scouts could.”

“It’s too late for that.” Jafaris says after a pregnant pause, “If he _is_ the true lord of this land, then he already sees and knows all that goes on if he wishes it so. None of us have the magic to hide our encampment from his eyes. Right now, we dance on the edge of a blade.”

If Taccarra was not wearing the skin of a snake, he’d gulp.

“This is why I don’t bother with courts. Too many powers. Too much magic.” he says, “Do you think we could give him a tribute, like the nobles do for King Sheba? Or as the King Sheba does every seven years?”

“Tribute?” Jafaris laughs but its dry and haunted. It almost echoes through the hollow tree. “What makes you think a lowly tribute would impress him? Secondly, do you think any of us have something to give?” The raccoon gestures to the walls. “I can see it now! ‘Oh yes, my serf, I duly appreciate these fine gifts of shredded newspaper and mouse droppings! I’ll add them to my collection and put it right next to the drinking cups made of my enemies’ skulls! You’ve earned yourself two years on my land!’”

“It could work! It _could_!” Taccarra argues, “Weirder things have happened.”

“How amusing you still want to entertain this idea of yours. You should apply for King Sheba’s jester. I heard she had another one killed.”

Taccarra’s response is to snort and climb out the tree. Jafaris personally hopes they never come back. Snakes get an idea in their head and suddenly its genius that no one else understands except for them.

Jafaris has better things to worry about.

It is about an hour into foraging, when Jafaris is eating berries off a bush with feverish delight, that he realizes that Taccarra might be…right. It’s a bitter thing to realize after that small spat but there are some kernels of truth to Taccarra’s words. This Lord Selvans is an old blood, whose family imported from the homestead. He may adhere to the old traditions of tribute. He may remember a time when lowlies were not just annoying vagrants to nobility but an official part of the social structure.

Still, the matter of tribute is still a problem. Kingly tributes are silver and loyalty in the form of aristocrat children conscripted into the army. Lowlies like Jafaris have nothing but blood, their name, and the occasional bastard gift.

Jafaris mulls over the issue, while gathering his food and keeping a look out for trouble. He only comes across Lord Selvans once. Once again, the man is on the hunt. This time he has a bow with him. It is likely he is looking for deer because even in this shabby small forest, there are true animals on the prowl. Jafaris hides in an empty burrow near tree roots and doesn’t look in his direction. Then he runs back to the encampment, climbing back into his tree.

The next morning is full of talk.

“He killed a rabbit!” squeaks the rabbit in fear, “I saw him take it and skin and then disappear back into the woods.”

“What are you jumping on about?” the skunk snorts, “You’re not a real rabbit. You think a lord can’t tell the difference between a rabbit and a fae?”

“He could not care! We’re going to be hunted soon!” The rabbit shudders. “I say we just go now. I’ve heard good things about the parks.”

“All the parks except one are Unseelie and good luck getting to it.” says Jafaris from his tree. “It’s on the other side of the city.”

“Everyone calm down.”  says Mauris, “I don’t think this lord is all he’s cracked up to me.”

“You say that about everything.” Taccarra says.

“I’m serious. Think on this.” Mauris continues. Jafaris rolls his eyes but the rattlesnake continues, “This so-called Seelie lord comes in the middle of the night after centuries of being away from his home and there’s no pomp? No celebration? Hell, I haven’t even seen a servant. And what sort of lord hunts for his own dinner? Prepares his own meals? No, something is not right here—not right at all. In fact, why would he even come _back_ here?”

“What do you mean…?” Jafaris asks. He hates Mauris more than anything but the wily rattlesnake has raised his curiosity.

“I mean this: he must have known that his family is no longer here, yes?” Mauris proposes, “Surely there were letters and photographs sent from his family over the years while he was away. Why come back to what has been abandoned? I’ve never even seen the manor that these unknown nobles lived at. Have any of you?”

A chorus of “no”s follow this and Jafaris—to his immense displeasure—must join in. The small forest does not have enough room to allow a structure. To its west was a landfill that absorbed most of the territory. The small forest swelled and formed a small hill that bumped into the structure of the human highway. No one knew where the manor had once stood.

“By all means, Mauris, feel free to ask Selvans those questions.” Jafaris says, “Maybe he’ll respond in kind.”

“I’m just stating an opinion.” Mauris sniffs, “I didn’t say I would risk my scales for it.”

Jafaris rolls his eyes and slides back inside his hole. Mauris is the same as ever: all big words with no force behind them. Jafaris debates about what he’ll do to wile away the daylight hours and decides on a bit of exploration.

He doesn’t go far into the landfill, or the ‘wasteland’ as the other lowlies prefer it. Its long stretches of dirt and rust and hazards. Jafaris stays close to the outliers of the landfill, the edges where the newest things are dumped and sometimes there is a treasure to be had. Broken glass and wood can make a good knife or moldy books that have some letters intact. Sometimes the books are not moldy at all—simply outdated and unwanted by the humans. Jafaris hoards these high quality books, adds them to his den and when they become illegible, they simply transform into new bedding. For Jafaris, and lowlies like him, nothing is lost. It only transforms.

In such, Jafaris is in the process of transforming human junk into a possible offering. It’s still a stupid idea but there’s gold to be found amongst Taccarra’s lowly shit-knowledge. Its why he’s survived so long as is. Jafaris uses raccoon paws to scrape and dig through the edges of the junkyard, unearthing old nails and paper to wrap it in. He moves carefully and quickly. Any non-animal behavior could be noticed as erratic—sending warnings to scouts about lowlies in their midst.

He forages in the junkyard for only an hour and then returns to his den. He folds the paper, making an envelope. Now he has to figure out how to deliver the offering.

“Jafaris!”

Taccarra’s sing-song voice is outside. The raccoon climbs out, peering out of the hole. The snake was on the ground with newspaper in his jaw.

“Do you have time for a lesson?” Says the milk-snake.

“Are you serious?” He knows Taccarra is one of the dimmer lowlies but he didn’t know he was _that_ dim.

“Very serious. Hold on.” and Taccara slides up the tree as he did before. Jafaris joins him in the den as the milk-snake pushes himself through the hole. Once landed, Taccarra nudges a piece of paper toward Jafaris. “Look. I found a sunfolk broadsheet.”

Jafaris squints at the paper as he would poison. The Seelie papers are few and far between in the colonies, lacking images and squeezing as much typeface as possible onto one sheet. Even Jafaris can’t tell what this cluster of letters could be about. 

Jafaris has other concerns aside from the paper. “Where’d you find this?”

“It blew my way.” Taccarra says, “I found it about the mayfly broadsheets. There was a bit of them mixed up, since they can’t see it.”

Or if the humans see it, it would be no different from any other old paper. Magic is funny that way.

“Still foolish of you to take it.” Jafaris scolds, “What if a scout spy was on the lookout? They’d question why a snake would take newspaper instead of looking for mice.”

“Stop being paranoid.” Taccarra huffs, “There’s no spies in this area. No fae care about this land. It’s too close to the wasteland. No one knows we’re here.”

Taccarra’s words hold little water to Jafaris. The scouts are always on the lookout and their curved blades hungry for lowly blood. He’s been ousted from too many homes _not_ to be cautioned against them. Still, he does not think long on it and works toward Taccarra’s literary lessons. He recites what he can from the Seelie broadsheets, talking about the hiking currency rates of homestead herbs exchanged for colony grains. It’s all very mundane talk that could be overheard in any coffee shop or nouveau riche parlor.

“These letters are EOT. They stand for East Occident Traders.” Jafaris says, pointing to the broadsheet, “These letters are SRP. They stand for--”

“Have you ever been there?” asks Taccarra, “The homestead I mean.”

Jafaris is taken aback by the question at first. Then he’s immediately annoyed. “Why would you interrupt me with such a stupid question?”

“You’re learned and you’re smarter than a lot of others.” Taccarra says, “So I thought ‘maybe Jafaris is lonely because he’s not from here and that’s why he’s grouchy’.”

That word prickles Jafaris in a way he hasn’t expected. Grouchy. Why grouchy? He definitely isn’t grouchy. Old fae with bent spines and grey hair and wrinkles were ‘grouchy’. Old humans with the same features but with less years were ‘grouchy’. He isn’t grouchy. He’s learned and more perceptive than other lowlies who’d rather drink and slum their way through the little time they’re allotted compared to other fae.

“Do you think I’m an old man?” Jafaris says and can’t keep the annoyed hiss out his voice.

“I don’t know. Maybe?” Taccarra’s tongue flicks out, tasting the air but for some reason not picking up on Jafaris’ annoyance. “I’ve never seen you without your skin, so I have no idea. Of course, no one sheds their skin around here. Its weird to hide all the time like this.” 

“And you would rather the scouts find us right away?”

“No, but…” Taccarra pauses, “At the other encampment I was at, we were still fae. We had animal forms for most of the day but at night, we had our dances and communion. It was very…important. Of course, that was before the lord died and his inheritor wanted us gone.”

“If you had done as we did, you’d still be on the land.” Jafaris sniffs, “And to answer your previous question: no. I was born in the colonies just like you. I’m sure the only people coming to the colonies are bored nobles sowing their wild oats before returning to their manors. Mostly, the traffic goes one way.”

Jafaris didn’t need to expand on that fact. There were lowlies in everything but name that shucked off the traditions and spend their days travelling between the borders to serve as cooks and cleaners in ancient manors. He doesn’t like to dwell on such a lifestyle.

“What’s that bit of paper you have there?” Taccarra asks, looking toward the offering.

“Just…a project.” Jafaris mumbles.

“It’s an offering isn’t it? I can tell.” Taccarra wriggles his body while Jafaris suffers from embarrassment at the oddly perceptive milk-snake. “You should add a bit of dried herbs. If you just leave this out, somebody else might take it. You should color it too.”

The last suggestive intrigues Jafaris. “Color it?”

“Yes. Make it the lord’s colors.” Taccarra says, “That way, no one can make the mistake of thinking it was for them.”

Taccarra knows more about this than Jafaris would initially surmise, but if the milk-snake had indeed lived on a lord’s land in the true lowly tradition, then he would be gifted with such knowledge.

“I’ll consider it.” Jafaris sniffs.

Taccarra tilts his head but says nothing. He leaves the tree, promising to practice his letters until the last night. Jafaris scourges through his den, searching until he finds crayons buried under shredded newspaper and old fur. They’re ugly stumps but two of them are green or a greenish shade. He colors what he can and then takes off from his den, moving through the small forest. Jafaris puts some distance between the encampment and where Lord Selvans would find the gift.

With the packet in his mouth, Jafaris moves through the forest using raccoon eyes and ears. The sky darkens with time and the moon rises, a small sliver in the sky. He moves until he sees the fog, feels the chill on his fur. Out of self preservation, he finds a spot in a hole dug near the branches of a tree. He squeezes himself in, hiding.

Instead of footsteps, conversation echoes.

“I can’t be the last.” declares Lord Selvans.

“If you won’t listen to me, listen to the evidence.” The second voice is deep and pondering. The voice of the owl no doubt.

Lord Selvans is silent. Jafaris strains his ears but all he hears is the distant rumble of thunder.

“I only suggest that you should do as others have done. Pull up your roots and go with the rest of them.” The owl continues, “This land is no longer yours. It belongs to humans and the destitute.”

"You would have me go _west_.” Lord Selvans spits out the word ‘west’ like he would a foul poison, “And what would I do there? Live in those hill-cities and cramped caverns? Oh yes. I fought tooth and nail against the sea-hag’s armies for the _honor_ of bumping shoulders against every fae who bought noble titles.”

“Dishonor or not, things change. Even for us.”

Thunder rumbles again. Jafaris’ nose twitches, smelling the rain. He’s relieved that it’s finally raining again, as he’s been aching for a bath due to the dry cold air chafing his skin. Raccoon grooming can only do so much.

"I am old but I am not that old to be goaded by the words of a coward." Lord Selvans’ voice is so low that Jafaris must strain his ears to hear him. "My fore-bearers rebuilt this place after firebirds razed it and locust-men harvested it. The old manor remains and so will I."

There is a flutter of large wings. No doubt the owl is taking off in a huff. Jafaris sees the shape of Lord Selvans moves through the fog spread by his glamour. Rain begins to pour in fat drops, dampening the forest with pleasant smells. Lord Selvans looks in Jafaris’ direction but does not approach. He turns down another dirt path, disappearing and taking his fog with him.

Jafaris debates about what to do with the offering. In the rain, the paper won’t last long but it must be placed somewhere respectful. He debates with himself and leaves the offering in his current hiding spot. He covers it with leaves and scratches a mark into the bark. Hopefully, Lord Selvans would find it during his evening strolls.

Then Jafaris goes on his nightly hunt for a meal and winter storage. His stores are still not big enough to comfortably survive without starving himself. He tries to correct this as much as possible, but he wonders if it will ever be enough.

The days continue and they grow no colder or warmer. Jafaris has a crude calendar inside his den, marking the dates with etchings and judging date and time by the movement of human trucks dumping garbage and junk. Lowlies live by such irregular times, having little concept of it. Taccara continues his visits until one day when the milk-snake comes by without his skin.

It’s a shock to see a fae in the encampment for once. Like all of them, Taccarra is rail thin with brown skin striped and doted in the pattern of a milk-snake. He has serpent’s eyes and red curls and a strange smile.

There is also a new discovery for Jafaris.

“You’re female?” asks Jafaris.

“Huh?” Taccarra briefly looks at her skinless shape with its small breasts and angular shape. She shrugs. “Oh yeah. Well, it doesn’t matter when you’re reptile.” She grins showing fangs and holds up a muddied paper. “Look! There’s tons of mayfly words about.”

Jafaris squints at the dirty paper but can’t tell what it means. “What made you shed your skin?”

“It rained so I made today my bath day.” Taccarra says in a matter-of-fact tone, “When I was washing, I heard voices. At first I thought it to be scouts but ‘twas mayflies. A whole group of ‘em.”

A rabbit looks up from the weeds they’re eating at the base of Jafaris’ tree. “Mayflies? So close to the forest?”

Taccarra nods. “A bunch of ‘em! They was loud and bickering something. One of them had one of those screaming tubes.”

“A megaphone.” Jafaris says.

“Yeah! That!” Taccarra continues, “I only had a poxy little grasp on mayfly tongue but they was angry about _something_. They were a bunch of dirty looking mayflies and they smelt like burning grass.  But a lot of them had these.” She holds up the dirtied paper. “There were a lot of papers but only some got blown our way. I snatched it from the mud as I couldn’t get at in my skin.”

 _This merits investigation,_ Jafaris thinks and descends from his trees. Those wandering through the encampment crowd around as the raccoon studies the letters. The paper is still in terrible state and Taccarra’s muddied prints did it no favors. The most legible of the letters are at the very top.

“I can only make out the biggest words.” Jafaris says less to Taccarra and more to the crowd around him, “‘Protection’ is one and ‘petition’ is the other. There’s smaller words too but I can’t make them out.”

“So the mayfly scratching is no real use.” mutters the skunk.

“Not until we get the rest.” Concludes Mauris.

“What’s that word mean, Jafaris? ‘Petition’?” asks the white-footed mouse.

“It’s a way people protest a decision.” Jafaris says.

“Ah!” Taccarra nods and folds her arms, as if understanding clearly. “So the mayflies must be upset with their king.”

“But why come to the forest?” asks the chipmunk.

“Their petition must have something to do with it.” surmises the opossum.

“Um.” mutters the red squirrel, “Shouldn’t someone tell King Sheba?”

Silence fills the air. Jafaris swallows. He knew the red squirrel was as dumb as Taccarra but he didn’t realize how stupid. None of them had the right to have audience with the king, even if it was worthwhile.

“I mean,” stutters the red squirrel, “if like, there’s something with the land then the king should know. She’s in charge of all the magic…”

“Oh yes. Feel free to walk right into the Seelie Court if you fancy it.” Mauris says, “I’m sure the King Sheba won’t look at you and fancy herself a squirrel-skin wrapping for her latest heir.”

“There’s nothing to be done.” Jafaris says and retreats into his den before an argument breaks out.

Jafaris thinks nothing of the mayfly words. He keeps the paper in his den for his bedding and practices his letters as he flips through a human book. He sleeps through the noon and until the evening, when he wakes up under the still slivered moon and begins the hunt again. He moves through the forest, pondering on what the mayflies could want.

If anything happens to the forest, he would have to leave. That was the truth of it. The only matter was where he should go…and there is little option for one such as Jafaris. He debates if there even _is_ an option.

Even though the small forest is uncomfortably close to the landfill…it is still his home. He would rather see it stand for as long as possible. He would have kin here and raise his gift-children in the shade of the elms.

Jafaris turns his mind away from pipe dreams as he uncovers a rare delicacy: a nest of grasshoppers in a rotting log. It is perfect treatment for having such miserable thoughts. The raccoon fae pounces on the log, only for his small paws to pass through it. The log disappears, along with the savory smell of grasshoppers. Silver thread snares around his throat, knocking his head into the ground.

Jafaris wheezes but remains still. He has been caught in enough snares to know struggling with silver thread can result in a quick decapitation. Slowly—with trembling claws—he pries and tugs at the silver thread, but it is of high quality. It isn’t easily frayed by constant picking and patience. Fear rising in him but he does not move. He can’t. He thinks of the scouts and their jeers and threats. The sight of curved knives moving on fur.

The scouts do not come. Instead, there are footsteps and the fog rolls in. Lord Selvans’ glamour expands, moving through the trees and filling the Seelie lord with an air of nobility. He seems more terrifying to Jafaris. Dreamlike, really. 

“What a pathetic sight you are.” says Lord Selvans. “Some creature of angels and devils’ lovely mischief descended to this earthly plane, capable of magic greater than any human, and here you are, felled by illusions and thread like any other beast.”

“I only what I know, m’lord.” Jafaris says quickly. Breathing and talking are hampered by the thread tightly wound around his throat. “Free me and I’ll send upon you and your kin a boon.”

Lord Selvans moves in close and reaches to his side. Jafaris gasps, thinking the lord is going for his sword, but instead he drops a paper on the ground.  It is yellowed newsprint but preserved well enough that the lettering hasn’t faded.

“Read me the first line. Aloud.” Lord Selvans says.

Jafaris licks his mouth, looking over the crinkled paper. _“Huge Molasses Tank Explodes in North End; 11 Dead, 50 Hurt.”_ he reads at a hurried pace, “ _Giant Wave of 2,300,000 Gallons of Molasses, 50 Feet High, Sweeps Everything Before_ \-- _”_

“Stop .” orders the lord.

“I could read better if the thread was loose.” Jafaris swallows shallowly, still afraid the thread would cut his throat.

Lord Selvans raises an eyebrow. “How gullible do you think I am?”

“Gullible? No. Kind? Perhaps.”

Lord Selvans snorts. He reaches out to Jafaris and the mist and frost swallows them both whole. Jafaris is wrapped in a cloud of cold, thinking when he was a small raccoon cub. He thinks back when he lived in a park with his family before being pushed out the nest. He remembers his first time out on the streets, looking for his own den and kin to hang around with. The coldness and the wavering knowledge that he would never be able to return home and the futile attempts he made to try and return to the past.

When Jafaris wakes up, he is not in a cave or earthen den but in a cement cellar. His first motion is to reach up but he despairs when he feels the thread still present, snugly wrapped around his throat and now tied to a table leg. Jafaris’ raccoon eyes glance around the dark cellar, seeing the wax pooled around the groups of candles, the cellar fireplace, and the deerskin tent.

Lord Selvans stands in the corner next to the tent, watching Jafaris. He has reeled in his glamour for the time being, setting aside the mist and grandiose importance of his standing in life. He is still handsome with his dark olive skin and red-brown hair. The velvet on his antlers are starting to shed, leaving raw bloodied stripes on where it had already fallen. He has all the affectations of a Seelie lord: golden jewelry in his ears and on his nose, the marks from battle, and the bright emerald eyes. He is wrapped in a gold silk cloak, hiding his armor.

Jafaris had encountered enough Seelie lords to know better than to be taken in on appearance alone. Lord or not, they were all assholes in their own way. Instead, he turns his thoughts toward his own survival and why he had been brought into this dank cellar. If Lord Selvans wished his death, he would have already done so. Instead, the forest lord wants him alive…but as to what purpose he isn’t sure.

“Be these your dwellings, m’lord?” Jafaris asks. “If so, then you are a kind one to invite a lowly here.”

Lord Selvans says nothing. He pulls out his hunter’s knife and studies it idly. The seconds tick by and finally he says, “If you want to leave this place alive, I suggest stopping that minstrel show that other lords fall for. I know you speak better than that lowly pidgin you’re adhering to.”

Jafaris scowls. There is nothing worse than a Seelie lord but an intelligent Seelie lord is even more difficult to deal with. “Just as I was getting ready to do a tumble for you and sing you a coon song.” he scoffs.

“Some would appreciate that falsetto mockery, but I am not one of them.” Selvans moves in close and before Jafaris can move, his hunting blade snares on the silver thread.

The thread is sliced away and Jafaris runs, bumping into the table and upsetting an unlit candelabra. Selvans is not concerned as he watched Jafaris hide in the shadow of cloth covered boxes, smelling of dust.

“You won’t find your escape without my saying.” Selvans says, “The door is barred until I give my permission to leave.”

“Then tell me what you want so that I can be done with this.” Jafaris hisses from the shadows.

“I’ll discuss nothing with a rodent.” Selvans takes his time repositioning the candelabra and sitting at the table. It’s a simple wood table that looks like it has been forgotten in the cellar for decades. Still, he sits at it in a simple chair like a king. “Be civilized for a change and shed that form.”

Jafaris growls but does not debate against the order for long. Lowlies before him have suffered terrible fates disobeying those that owned the land. He should just be thankful that he is not dead, but still he swallows the order bitterly. Still in the shadows, he begins to change his shape. Shedding his skin takes longer than it normally would, as Jafaris is not talented in such spheres and has gone in the shape of a raccoon for months on end. It pains him to realign muscle and bone. Brown skin stretches as grey and black fur shrink back into him and a tangle of thick black hair is on his body instead. When he steps out of the shadows, his gait is awkward as a newborn.

Selvans watches the raccoon fae, studying the other’s body like collectors do their specimens. Jafaris stares back at him and even though he is in his true shape, he still has the features of a raccoon: the bold dark eyes, the markings of banditry along the face and hands, and the bushy hair on his head thick as his fur was. If Jafaris had not lived as a lowly since birth, he would have been coquettish or shy with his nudity…but that is not the case. For now he is indifferent.

"You are…a freemartin?" Selvans asked.

Jafaris shows the lord his teeth. They are not quite as sharp as a werewolf or vampire, but they can still show intent and harm.

“Do I look like cattle to you?” Jafaris snarls.

Selvans’ eyes narrow but he smiles, although it is small and brief. Jafaris’ insubordination is more humorous, like a child cursing their parent.

“I believe cattle would be insulted to be confused with a thief in fur.” He quips.

Jafaris has no answers. Instead, he pulls at the tangles in his thick mesh of hair. He can’t remember the last time he brushed it, or the last time he washed it. Now he would have to deal with the annoyance and itchiness that trouble him far more than the matter of sex and gender.

Whatever Selvans has in mind, its not to be focused on Jafaris’ own personal predicaments. He gifts the lowly raccoon fae clothes which is putting it kindly in that they are threadbare rags left in the cellar. At one point, it may have been an evening gown but moths and time have rendered it into something befitting Jafaris’ lower-than-peasant status. Jafaris knots and wraps with practiced expertise but the clothes and itching and don’t improve his smell or disposition.

“This doesn’t bind me to you.” Jafaris adds once he is done knotting the rags so they’ll fit, “I’m lowly through and through. Not to become your house servant or thrall.” 

“You and I will always have different perceptions on our roles, but make no mistake in regards to our relationship.” Selvans says, “You live on my land, drink from my streams, and eat the insects on my property. You are no different from the rocks and trees you squat amongst. If I am to command you to jump, then you will ask me how high I require.”

“You can ask me to jump, but I won’t guarantee I’ll do it well either.” Jafaris counters, “And how much land do you actually own? Most of its given way to the junkyard and landfill.”

Selvans gives Jafaris a poisonous look and the raccoon fae prepares himself to be smacked in the mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time. Instead, Selvans goes to the table and places a newspaper on it. Jafaris moves in but keeps a cautious distance from Selvans. The newspaper is not the Seelie broadsheets or the Unseelie gazette, but the stark white and colors of human print. While Jafaris studies the papers, Selvans briefly disappears into the tent and reappears with a leather satchel.

“I know you can read the human language,” Selvans says, “What I want to know is who taught you?”

“My mother.” Jafaris says, “It helps when you’re looking through human trash to know what’s bleach and what’s orange juice. Don’t ask me where she learned it.”

“Never told you?” Selvans asks.

“That and she died before she could.” Jafaris continues, “Ironic really. She was all for supporting of nobles like you. She’d been loyal to the Sheba dynasty and one of Sheba’s descendants killed her outright for trespassing. I was lucky to get away myself.”

“What a tragic story for a young thing such as yourself,” Selvans remarks, “but how much of it is true?”

Jafaris tilts his head. “That depends on who you’re asking. Now what do you want of me?”

“A ‘my lord’ would not hurt.” Selvans sat back at the table, returning to his noble airs. From the leather satchel he takes out a quill, inkwell, and what appeared to be a waterproofed bound journal. It had been some time since Jafaris had seen such things that he was temporarily stunned. “For now, you will dictate to me what is on that paper. Every page and article until I tell you to stop.”

Jafaris picks up the newspaper, studying the small print. He has no idea how humans tolerate this. He then looks at Selvans with a sniff. “I hope you’ll be feeding me if you want me to play the part of your clerk.” When Selvans doesn’t respond, he adds, “And to what point am I doing this?”

"Because I command it. Begin." Selvans orders.

Jafaris doesn’t argue further because there is no point. The cellar door is still barred to him and refusing to do as he’s commanded will just waste time. He begins with the front page of the paper, translating everything he can make out. He doesn’t know why a Seelie lord would be interested in the bland affairs of humans, but he can guess that there must be a reason…or this is just another test. Either alternative is annoying to him but Jafaris does not show it. Part of being a lowly is tolerating such stupidity from time to time.

He reads about human news—human trafficking and politics until Selvans raises his hand for him to stop. Jafaris goes back to preening his tangled hair, fidgeting with half-done braids and pulling out stray leaves and small twigs.

“It seems that it’s not just a learned fluke. I’ve heard of your kind, intelligent lowlies that could live better but choose not to.” Selvans observes.

“I’ve heard of your kind as well.” _The kind that like to treat us like specimens under a glass, like we’re a rare kind of insect,_ Jafaris thinks but he’s not so foolhardy to say it aloud.

“Mmm.” Selvans narrows his eyes, “You may go.”

Jafaris moves quickly from the table. He goes to the cement stairs and ascends, easily pushing open the odor. He does not immediately emerge from the cellar, moving with the stealth of one who has learned to live on borrowed time and land. He scans the area around him but there is only dry cold air and morning light to greet him.

Jafaris stands in what he assumes are the remains of the Selvans manor. The only hint there had been a foundation are crumbling walls of algae-green brick steadily being eased apart by weeds. The walls move through the tall grass, eventually disappearing into the darkness of the highway’s thick pillars. Jafaris does not let his thoughts linger on what could be hidden underneath the highway _this_ time. Instead, he regains his raccoon skin and runs through the forest. The sound of rumbling cars mask his movements as he uses his raccoon body’s natural compass to guide him back home.

When he returns to the campsite, no one questions where he has been. Raccoons are solitary creatures and Jafaris the most solitary of them all.

Jafaris hopes not to be summoned against, but his previous interactions with Selvans have deemed him something of worth or at least curiosity. There is no hiding from Selvans in the forest, unless Jafaris wishes to leave and he has no motivation to do so. Selvans summons for him in the typical fashions of a Seelie forest lord. Berries were dropped on Jafaris’ head, with _Come now_ written on them in smooth sunfolk scripts. Leaves blew into Jafaris’ nest saying _Jafaris_ following he bring some scrap of human paper or a book. Often it interrupted Jafaris’ lessons with Taccarra, who took to the alphabet like a snake to the sun.

Jafaris teaches Selvans all he knows of the human language and of their words and ways. Selvans has been away for centuries, back when all humans traveled on were horses and the roads were manure and mud. Often these learning sessions go late into the night and on some days, Selvans will share his deer stews with Jafaris. The two sit at the table like they _could_ be friends and speak little.

“How could you not know about cars though?” Jafaris asks, “Even out at the cape, they have then.”

Selvans has a far off look in his eyes.

“You have never been in war.” He says, “Fae wars are done deep into the colony, far from the influence of the human lands and deep into the magic side—where fields go on for the size of countries and a single battle may take years. Things are different and time is as molasses. I went into the cold waters of the shore with my armies against the sea hags and their marsh people cults. When I returned to the edge where we touch humanity, everything was different. I thought I had gone to another realm. Instead I am much like Rip Van Winkle.”

Jafaris only knows vaguely of Rip Van Winkle—a human who had crossed over between the barriers that separates humanity and fae. Machines and magic. How he crossed over, no one is sure and no one is sure what happened to him sometime after. Lowlies think he sleeps under the earth with ancient fae kings while Seelie and Unseelie think he’s another maladaptive legend written by ale-addled bards.  

“So much has changed.” Selvans says and he inhales and exhales. “Even now, I can’t find a decent horse. No one breeds them so close to the city.”

Jafaris shakes his head. “There’s no room to put them. Not without creating your own land and that costs more madstones that most of us have ever seen in a lifetime. Places like this, we share what the humans have. The magic is thinner here than back home.”

“I’ve noticed.” Says Selvans and he is silent for the rest of the night.

Jafaris finds these few evenings pleasant but other than that, he is annoyed by the constant interruptions to his life. He visits Selvans so often, he notices the steady transformation of the cellar. The tent disappears, replaced with a bed Jafaris would make. Selvans’ dwelling steadily transformed from a hovel into a decent sodhouse.

“While I’m happy that you decided to live in a fashion befitting modern civilization, your demands put me at an impasse.” Jafaris says, “I have my own life outside of you and winter is on our heels.”

Selvans does not look from his task. He whittles a block of wood, making his own senet set from scratch. Already he has finished the board and moved onto the pieces. “Your priorities are not mine to be concerned with.” says he, “I can control the seasons as much as you can with the sun.”   

“And what will you do when your scholar starves in the winter?” Jafaris challenges, “And before you suggest it, _no_. I will not become your house fae. I see the machinations in your eyes already about changing my very nature and I’ll not have it.”

Selvans looks to Jafaris with his vibrant green eyes, like newly sprouted leaves. He puts down his carved block and approaches the raccoon fae. Jafaris backs away but still the lord reaches out and touches his face. The lord’s touch is warm and his fingers are rough, chafed from handling swords and bows. He smells like fresh cut grass and ripe berries. Everything of him is noble and Jafaris looks up at him with hungry, sunken eyes and thick, dirty hair.

“Then challenge me against such a reasonable wish.” Selvans says, “Do you bend the knee so much to your people’s self-hindering traditions? The colonies are not a place for nomads and someone of your intelligence is wasted out in the fields.” The forest lord takes his hands away, spreads his fingers. “This is but a cellar now but in a year’s time it can be more. The Selvans are not all dead and this can be our land once again. Already I speak with King Sheba about deigning the land my own in a proper fashion. A mind like yours deserves a home. A library. A school, even.”

Jafaris shakes his head.

“You would make me a pet or a spectacle at best.” Jafaris scoffs, “I hear the gawkers in my ears now, pointing at the lowly who knows letters and doesn’t speak in pidgin or sunfolk cant. I’ll not have it.” The raccoon fae bites off _Not again_ before it leaves his lips.

Selvans does not back away from the argument. “You would live a life of familiar peril for the fear of a new safety? Legionnaires care not whether a lowly is intelligent. They’ll grind you under their boots all the same.

“I doubt you would hate it though…” and Selvans’ fingers runs along Jafaris’ lips. They are rough and cracked from years of living in the rough. “If I kept you in my home, in my bed, how much would you hate it and force to turn it away? Would you toss away the ‘yoke’ of a house fae title? The warmth of a fire and constant meal?”

Jafaris considers pushing him away and acting as his parents would before him…but Jafaris is not his parents and they are long since dead. A lowly has no loyalty but to their fangs and those that choose not to turn theirs against them.

“Why do you _bother_ me so?” Jafaris asks with narrowed eyes, “You entertain a thousand thoughts and entitling me a house fae _isn’t_ one of them.”

 “Oh…” Selvans smiles and it is slender, wide, and wicked. “It’s a pity how smart you are, Jafaris. What a jest that you are but a lowly.”

In the half-seconds that follow, Jafaris considers how this could play out. He thinks back to the tawdry pulps that fae pass around, detailing the plight of some tragic lowly and their highborn lover. He thinks to how he could run now, become a raccoon and hide until Selvans loses interest. Even that is a gamble because Selvans could trap him here, wait him out…though if Selvans had such designs on him, he would have already made them. He considers his advantage—his rare luck—to have a lord so interested in him, but then chides those thoughts. He knows how these things play out.

Selvans hands are still on his face. Jafaris questions the last time he washed it and what this forest lord could be seeing. Then the raccoon fae remembers that this lord in front of him has only been at the battlefield for the past centuries, with the few camp followers and open-minded soldiers for his company.

So Jafaris does not push Selvans away when he’s touched. He crane his neck and lets the forest lord kiss his throat. He still smells of fresh grass and moss and everything else that makes up the forest. In his eyes are the endless leaves of what was once a grand forest that spread across this hillside—before the highway, the landfill, the junkyard, and the cement of humanity. Jafaris’ back rubs against the earthen wall of the cellar. The lord is on his knees, pushing away rags and kissing at the smooth sensitive skin of Jafaris’ inner thigh.

“You have some questionable interests.” Jafaris says in a near-whisper, “I would’ve thought you’d request I take a bath at least.”

Selvans has a smile and looks up at Jafaris. “Have you ever been to war? You get used to intimacy in the oddest of conditions.”

The comment elicits a small smile from Jafaris and then a shudder as the kissing continues. Selvan’s lips are just as textured as is, having dealt with the cold northern waters and the constant brackish salt of the marshlands. The kissing doesn’t last very long before Selvan is probing at Jafaris with his tongue, licking and savoring all he can. Normally Jafaris would balk at such treatments…but the Seelie lord is skilled. He’s practiced this enough time to make complaints a second thought. When he climaxes, he grasps onto Selvan’s hair and trembles.

“Did the sea hags teach you _that_?” Jafaris pants.

Selvans’ hands are still on Jafaris, spreading the lips of his quim. Jafaris shudders, still flushed and panting.“No. My commanding officer did. She had a ‘thing’ for cunnilingus. Amazingly enough, it also works on you.”

“Don’t entertain any ideas on me.” Jafaris warns though such harsh words are muddled by the flush on his cheeks, “I’m male in every way, no matter how I’m shaped.”

“I’m well aware. Your flat chest and masculine shape speak volumes.” Selvans says.

Jafaris has known all his life that they speak more than that alone. He questions why he had been abandoned, as all lowly children are before they are found by their parents. He wonders if his birth-parents had known he was a freak of nature, a bloodline hiccup in a sterile female and a feminized male in one package. Or maybe he was just another bastard that no one wanted to deal with. Whatever the choice had been, it is the past now. The only part of Jafaris that matters to him is his mind.

Well, his mind and his occasional hunger for something… _more_. Even a raccoon wants to be fucked once in a while by someone with skill. The last time Jafaris had sex, it was a drunken blowjob on his part and afterwards he’d been violently sick from Unseelie moonshine.

This is no contest. Jafaris knows his bones need warming and Selvans knew it.

The bed adventures don’t change anything between them. Jafaris and Selvans know their roles: the noble and lowly. The one who stands in court and the one who is outside. Their lives are divorced from crèche to ashes. For a few minutes, or maybe an hour if they’re not too preoccupied, their lives intertwine.

There are rules though. Selvans never tries to penetrate Jafaris. As a freemartin (that hated _word_ ), Jafaris is likely to be sterile but he still bleeds, albeit irregularly. He takes no chances with it though, since he has no energy or time to deal with anything but his own interests. He can always push away from Selvans and it is up to the forest lord to decide if the raccoon fae is teasing or just being moody. They only engage after lessons and sometimes during quiet evenings, but Jafaris never stays and he never makes the cellar a place of his own.

Their lives are always to be separate and never complicated by other matters.

 

The month of September moves on, changing into October. Jafaris knows this because he keeps track of the landfill’s contents. October’s garbage means a turning out of September’s old schoolbooks, pencil stubs, and unused papers. Some of the human workers at the landfill discuss plans for Halloween or local harvest festivals. Unseen, Jafaris listens to them and noses around the garbage in the skin of a raccoon. Even if he was not a raccoon, they would not notice him.

Jafaris’ food stores are not built up as securely as he would wish, but he should survive the winter—although lean. He continues his life as he typically would, teaching Taccarra the sunfolk alphabet and a bit of history as well when the milk-snake feels like it. Sometimes Mauris lurks at the bottom of the tree with his scaly self slipping over the roots.

“Do you think Lord Selvans will make us proper lowlies?” Taccarra asks.

“I’d rather you focus on not mixing up your letters than ask idle gossip.” Jafaris answers. They sit in the raccoon’s tree home, looking over the newspaper.

“Only asking because winter’ll be upon us. Lowlies say there may be early frost.” Taccarra continues, “You know that’s when them legionnaires get itchy fingers and start looking for trouble.”

“I’m well aware!” Jafaris snaps, “We all know the sound of a legionnaire’s boot on the frozen ground. There’s no need to go stirring things up. They haven’t found us so far and to constantly worry that seam is only going to lead to trouble.”

Taccarra pouts or only as much as a snake can. “Fine, fine. I only asked because you’re the smartest lowly I know. Well, ‘sides the owl that is. How old do you think they are?”

Like a child, Taccarra had few things in mind. Once one subject was discouraged, she moved onto the next.

“Older than the rest of us. That is for certain.” Jafaris answers.

They finishes their lesson quickly and Taccarra goes on their way, slithering along the hard ground. Jafaris watches the snake leave and sees the sun is high in the sky…and yet no leaf comes for them, or a pine cone expressing their need. Perturbed, Jafaris leaves the tree and goes into the forest on foot. The raccoon walks, tolerating the crisp air as they head toward the Selvans sod house. The air is still and the forest seemed emptier. Even the sound of cars is louder than Jafaris remembered.

“He’s not here.” says the owl.

Jafaris stops and looks up to see the large bird perched on a branch. They watch Jafaris with wide, interested eyes.

“You’ve been lurking more than the average lowly.” Jafaris says, “What’s your game?”

“I watch over everyone in the encampment.” The owl answers.

“You carry the air of a patron but you don’t actually have that title. You don’t request tribute or give them. You don’t speak to the nobles on our behalf or act in the way of disputes.”

“The disputes are few. Our bunch are unpopular even among other lowlies, I think.” The owl continues, “For you to ask of such traditions means you lived under them. Your parents were from the homestead weren’t they? Used to such finesse and traditionalist ways of living. What drove them to the colonies?”

Jafaris sits on his haunches and preens his whiskers, not looking at the giant bird. “I never said such a thing. I only made an observation. What makes you so sure Selvans isn’t here?” The raccoon looks to the moldering bricks, the shut cellar window, and the emptiness in all directions. It seems like the place is back to its empty state as it had been for centuries.

“I saw him leave earlier in the company of a cardiff merchant. If he goes with such, then he speaks with King Sheba.” The owl says, “He seemed displeased, though one could guess why given the state of his family’s land. The lack of message concerning their deterioration must raise his ire. But this, you must already know.”

Jafaris shrugs again. He does not like to think on the cardiffs. Part vampire and part stone giants, the beasts are at the beck and call of King Sheba due to some ancient boon. The details of which Jafaris is not sure, but even the sight of those eyeless faces with only shadows of humanity to them sets his fur on edge. If they are worse or better than the legionnaires, he isn’t sure.

Jafaris does not linger on the thought of the giants. He turns his attention to something worth his ire and able to suffer his annoyance without greater repercussion.

“Do you get your kicks spying on people?” Jafaris asks. The owl does not answer and he prods further, “If you’re so learned, why does Selvans not ask you for his help?”

“He has his ways and I have mine.” Then the owl spreads their wings and takes to the air.

Jafaris snarls and turns around. If Selvans is in the Seelie Court, its not skin off his nose. As he walks, the snow begins to fall heavier and soon his paws push away the heavy dust of white covering the forest floor. He knows he has enough food for the winter but still he thinks of those hungry winter nights when he was barely a kit, pushed out of the nest because lowly families can only suffer one child at a time—unless everyone wishes to stare starvation in the face for those leaner days.

Jafaris walks until he hears heavy footsteps. He stops and cranes his head. He makes like an animal only startled by the noise of a predator. He does not move like a fae, frightened of a possibility. He is only a few feet from home, hidden behind a crop of elms that line the encampment edge. He hopes he is only mishearing or perhaps these are human vagabonds wandering their way.

Another heavy footstep, wearing boots that gouge the earth. Jafaris does not move but he catches the smell: a musk of frankincense and berries grown only in the homestead and the undercurrent of tobacco.

Jafaris sees something move between the trees, flung from another part. It sparks and then a loud _bang_ follows with bright light and heat. Jafaris suppresses a hiss, moves between the tightly nestled elms to shield his eyes. He hides like a fae afraid and not an animal that would immediately run. For all he knows, there could be more out there.

The heat and light disrupts the quiet encampment. At once, people are running as blue smoke and fire unfurls. The fire is spelled to seek out anything with the smell of lowly attached to it. That means the grass, the trees, the branches…everything that makes the encampment home is eaten by the blue flames. Jafaris stays still because he knows how legionnaires work. First comes the flames and then comes the running.

And predictably the lowlies do run. Bats fleeing from the trees and mice running from their hiding spots. Jafaris waits and what follows is the whizz of arrows through the air and the sound of nets being snatched up. The first legionnaire he sees wears the standard uniform of the scouts: leather lamellar armor, laced together with silk. The dark red and gold cloaks and the red dagger at their waist. Their hair is braided back in the legionnaire style of cornrows to purposely keep hair out of the eyes and from being grabbed by the enemy.

Jafaris does not move. He wonders how they were found in such a remote place. Were the scouts always on patrol? Did they notice Taccarra grabbing paper? The bats flying in the daytime? Or did they see a fae walk between the trees? Or the unusual cluster of animals?  

“Lookit ‘em run!” one scout yells.

“Onward, fellows!” jeers another, “The game’s just begun!”

Other scouts have made their work of their catches. A possum screams in a fae’s voice, begging and pleading as the legionnaire’s knife cuts into them. The first thing these scouts learn is how to fend for themselves and that includes skinning animals. Jafaris says nothing, but watches as the fae’s skin is pulled from them. As the bloody flesh is removed, the possum loses their shape. They become a skinny, dirty fae with matted grey-white hair. Their back is smeared with blood, crosshatched from the knife marks. The legionnaire leaves them, moving onto another kill.

Left out in the open, the possum fae would definitely die from infection and wounds.

 

The scouts make a sport of it. Jafaris watches rattlesnakes flee. One in particular looks at him and the light is dim with only the blue flame…but he knows its Taccarra. Taccarra sees Jafaris hidden amongst the tree.  Jafaris breathes and in the next moment, an arrow goes through the snake. Jafaris screams but covers his mouth, muffling the fear.

The scouts look at him and Jafaris knows he can’t gawk any longer. He starts to run but the footsteps move around him. There must be more scouts in the woods, stationed throughout to make sure no one gets away easy. A trumpet blows through the woods and it seems to stir up the snow. Jafaris knows this is no standard flushing out of lowlies, but initiation for those that want the legionnaire sashes and honors placed on them.

What better demonstration of loyalty to the King Sheba than willingness to follow directions?

Jafaris runs until he is haggard. He does not think of his lost provisions, his moldy books, and lost home. He only thinks of survival, but the trumpets and the sound of the scout boots behind him. Jafaris’ paws hit a stone and he tumbles down a hillock. He lands on his back and at the feet of another legionnaire scout.

They surround him in time. There are four of them: two satyrs and two elves. They stink of the noxious brew they make all in-training legionnaires drink to make them more bloodthirsty and willing to kill. Already the satyr has skins hanging off their belt as proof of their kills: chipmunk, white footed mouse, and skunk.

“Look what we got! A tree rat!” laughs an elf.

Jafaris hisses, showing them fangs. He has no magic, only rage. He moves to run against, but he is exhausted and his heart is pounding with fear. An arrow snags him in the arm and he screams. He tries to pull the arrow out with his teeth but its barbed to make such a thing difficult.

“Who wants the skin?” asks the satyr.

“I got enough rat as it.” Says the elf. Jafaris looks at them and sees possum and cottontail rabbit skins off their belt.

“I could use some more. Not much pickings over here.” A satyr snickers. From his belts are two snake skins and a toad skin. “This fucker’s big enough to make a good cap.”

Another of the elves has been quiet but then their eyes widen.

“Holy shit.” she mumbles, “I think I know this fucker.” The others look at her and she continues, “Few years back there was a raccoon fae that used to hang out in the court’s foyer with all the other whores. Last I heard, they took up with some yemaja lord.”

“That went south apparently,” snorts the satyr, “ _if_ this is the same fae.”

The elf smiles. “If the whore’s good enough for a lord, it good enough for us.”

“I say ‘yea’ to that.” The other elf seizes Jafaris by the neck. He smells of burnt wood and noxiously potent wine. “Alright, ‘coon. Shed your skin and consider your life guaranteed.”

Jafaris does not move. He knows that the words of legionnaire scouts are as honest as a gambler’s smile. Instead, he shows the elf his teeth. He may be a lowly, but he’d rather risk the pain and fever of a skinning or immediate death rather than weigh his fate on a scout’s word again.

“Oooh. This one has fight still left in him!” chuckles the elf.

“What are you doing in my forest?”

The voice rumbles through the trees. Jafaris is still breathing slowly with hot breath forming clouds. Despite the snow on his fur and the chill in his blood, the voice keeps him from turning completely to ice. He looks up and sees Selvans high above the scouts. He does not fly like a bird fae but simply floats, having no time for the pomp of minor lords. His cape floats around him, like wings made of a thousand leaves—fused together by his innate magic. It only serves to make him look large.

“Who the fuck is this?” snorts a satyr.

The archer elf looks to the other elf. “You said this land was abandoned for years.”

The other elf is pale. He’s turned his attentions from Jafaris to this new interruption. “That’s what they said in the scout’s hall.”

Selvans lowers himself in the air but remains five feet above the scouts. He is directly above Jafaris now and the scouts back away, keeping their distance. One of the elves is still clutching their crossbow, aching to prove themselves. Jafaris remains still. He listens to the satyrs mutter to one another Seelie pidgin, that ugly cant that spreads among uppity peasants that consider themselves too good to be lowlies but are just as poor.

“Ain’t that General Selvans?” mutters a satyr.

“It’s gotta be. He’s the only antlered fellow in these parts…” says the other.

The other satyr shakes his head. “But they said he died up in the north. He ain’t even been at court…”

Selvans must not speak Seelie pidgin, because he doesn’t comment on it.

The elf with the sword steps forward with a clumsy bow. With the wine and bloodlust in them, it’s a feat they can do anything besides growl and move their sword.

“B-begging your pardon, my lord.” Says the elf, “We’re just ridding this land of the usual parasites. Most of the other places closest to the legionnaire’s hall was…so we came here. We did a right job, didn’t we?”

Selvans’s emerald eyes narrow.  “I did not go to war to have idiot children stumble around in the dark and harass serfs.”

The scouts try to drunkenly plead their case, but Selvans has no patience for it. He raises a hand and roots tears from the ground, moving to his command. Trees swat the scouts away, tossing them out the forest or seizing their limbs. The sharp _snap_ of bones follows as scouts are ejected from the forest. Elsewhere, the blue fire subsides but the damage has been done.

Jafaris remains on the ground. He has already begun to shed his skin, more out of fear than obeying the scouts. With the fur gone, they can’t get at him. It makes him a bigger target, but it also guarantees one less humiliation…and secures another. If Jafaris were a different lowly, he would bolt into the woods. Cross the landfill and junkyard and be done with all of it.

He isn’t though. Instead, his arms remain around him. He thinks of every insult and horror the scouts deliver to lowlies and every breath reminds him of those nightmares he thought he shook off long ago. In his nostrils he smells blood. In his ears are Taccarra’s scream and the _thwap_ of the arrow piercing her. The forest still burns.

There is still an arrow in him and every heartbeat makes it worse.

Selvans lowers himself to the ground. He slowly approaches Jafaris, who remains fae, relatively whole, and curled in on himself like any animal.

“Stay still.” The forest lord cautions.

Jafaris’ reaction is lightning. He moves away from Selvans, injured in both body and pride. He still bleeds from the arrow wound, moving as he forces his body along the ground.

“Fuck off.” he hisses, “Just fuck off!”

Selvans only comes closer, caging a wounded animal. He kneels beside Jafaris, with his eyes focused on the arrow. “You need to have that arrow removed before it turns infectious. Stay still and I can easily take it out.”

“Fuck off!” Jafaris screams, “Get _away_ from me!”

If there were all the times for a struggle, this is not one of them. Jafaris is still a caged animal, still thinking of the scouts and their mockery. Selvans thinks of the battlefield and helping only the wounded soldier. Neither of them belongs in the other’s world and so Jafaris screams. Selvans grabs Jafaris, pressing his head against the ground. He shouts over Jafaris’ words, trying to reason with a frightened beast.

The fire has subsided but the destruction continues. The yelling has been replaced with weeping and confusion. The forest burns in another way as the wounded and the dead make themselves know. While lowlies suffer, Jafaris endures Selvans’ grip and his ‘help’. With the raccoon fae’s struggle, the arrow is not easily loosed.

Wings beat strongly against the wind.

“What are you doing, you fool?” yells the owl, “Stop it! _Stop it!”_

The owl dives on the forest lord’s face. Selvans releases Jafaris, if only to shield his own eyes from the owl’s talon. As Jafaris cowers in the shadow of an oak, Selvans does battle with the owl. At its size and determination, it leaves a gouge in his cheek. Having marked its prey, the owl flies from Selvans. It lands on the ground in front of Jafaris, spreading its massive wings.

“This is not the place for you.” the owl declares, “If it was, this would have never happened.”

Selvans stares at the owl. Blood runs from the cut in his cheek, looking bright in the moonlight. Any other lord would have tossed the owl away as he had the scouts, or torn them apart for insubordination. Instead, Selvans steps away. The fog gathers around him, the glamour thickens, and he disappears—evaporating between the trees.

The owl lowers his wings. They whirl their head toward Jafaris.

“Are you alright to be touched right now?” they ask.

Jafaris doesn’t know. His mind is in a fog. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“Can you walk?” the owl asks.

Jafaris doesn’t know but he nods anyway.

“Then follow me.”

The owl takes to the air and the raccoon fae stands. He follows them at his hobbled pace, ignoring the burning pain his arm.

Jafaris expects the owl to bring him to a tree or some lean-to made of milk crates and plastic. Instead, he moves deep into the forest, coming close to where Selvans’ sod-house is. The owl brings him to a large, long wall of tumbled brick and a stairway. The fallen cement and bricks on the other side of the stairs have made a small stairway. The owl lands at the cement cave’s entrance and walks in. Jafaris follows after them, kneeling so he can fit through. The inside of the cave is layered with blankets and jackets. Cardboard walls and newspaper both human, Seelie, and Unseelie keep everything insulated. Everything looks ancient in the cave home, as if it stood there for years.

A snake slithers out from under a coat, looking at Jafaris.

“Jafaris!” says the snake, “You’re alive!”

“Taccarra?” Jafaris swallows the lump in his throat. He tries to hold back the tears but can’t. “I thought you were dead! I saw an arrow go through you--”

“Huh?” The snake curls into a loop. “I was here speaking with the owl about Selvans making us into real lowlies…”

“So Mauris is dead then.” The owl concludes.

Jafaris thinks of the arrow going through the snake and curses his lazy eyes. If he had been more attentive to the snake fae, he’d realize that a milk-snake’s pattern is different from that of a rattlesnake.

“Likely. I’m not certain.” Jafaris mutters, “All I know is that he was…skinned.”

Taccarra flinches. “Mauris loved his scales. He’ll put himself on the road if he’s to part with them.”

In the corner of the corner, the owl sheds their skin. Feathers spread out, replaced with wrinkled skin. The owl fae is old with withered breasts, silvered hair, and wrinkles along their mouth. Their eyes are still starry and empty, seeing nothing. They drag a plastic bag from the corner, moving toward Jafaris.

“Show me your arm.” the owl says.

With Taccarra safe and sound, the owl’s cave is less frightening. Taccarra remains by Jafaris’ side as the owl removes the arrow. Their talon hands are sharp but they know how to remove the arrow in the least painful away. Afterwards they chew berries and herbs, spit them into their palm, and smear it on the wound. The poultice burns and stinks, but its better than burning through a violent infection.

“That’s as much as I can do for now. Your body must do the rest of the work.” the owl says.

 “How long have you been in this forest?” Taccarra asks.

“As long as the Selvans.” the owl says.

Jafaris thinks of the close proximity of Selvans and this cave; how the cave lies under the stairs of a disappeared manor.

“You were the Selvans house fae.” Jafaris concludes.

“One of the many,” says the owl, “but that was a lifetime ago: before time took its toll.”

“Time? That don’t mean much to nobles.” says Taccarra, “Them Selvans were from the homestead, weren’t they? They wouldn’t age as quickly as colony-born do.”

“Age means nothing but other things change.” the owl continues. They move away from Jafaris, settling into another corner of the cement cave. “Currency changes, disease flourishes, and things that had value no longer do. Aristocrats have the advantage of time but other factors are their undoing.” The owl’s eyes are unseeing, ancient, and exhausted. “Lord Selvans is the last. He survives only because he was far away from what took his family. He is an elder fae still, tied to the land. He will never know our ways, being what he is.”

Jafaris thinks of the gash on the fae lord’s face and the blood on the fresh snow. The smell of fire and flesh torn apart by blades and arrows.

“The scouts will come back.” Jafaris whispers.

“Even if not, this place is dead as dragons.” Taccarra adds, “All the good places were burnt and poisoned.” She turns her snake head toward the cave entrance, where the snow still falls. “Food’s gone and winter’s here. No reason staying here.”

“Let’s not be too hasty.” The owl shrinks back into their skin, ruffling their feathers. The owl walks to the cave entrance. “We don’t know the extent of the damage. Whatever happens, lowlies like us always survive. We are weeds, all the stronger for the poisons they give us.”

Truer words had never been spoken, but Jafaris still has fear in his heart. Jafaris watches the owl fly off into the snowy night. Jafaris does not move. He curls onto the musty bedding and tries to ignore the smell of dust, the cold, and the fear crawling through him.

Taccarra looks to Jafaris and sheds her skin. She is still the lithe milk-snake fae, looking at him with large eyes. Jafaris thinks of Mauris—skinned if alive or dead from exposure—and sees her eyes are far more orange than the other snake fae’s although they both share the red hair. Jafaris does not ask if Mauris and Taccarra were siblings, cousins, or just of similar race. Taccarra slides next to Jafaris and touches his face. Jafaris says nothing but does not push away her company. He does not know if the snake fae intends to give him comfort or to ease away other fears. Still, they remain together—both frightened. They sleep lightly and do not dream.

Silence does not last long in the small forest. As blue streaks across the sky, conversations begin outside the cave entrance. Jafaris is the first to wake up, folding back into his skin as he leaves the cave. Outside, lowlies have gathered near. Out of the potential thirty that lived in the forest, there are only seven: the pygmy shrew, the snowshoe hare, the eastern mole, the brown rat, the rock dove, the ovenbird, the veery, and the whip-poor-will. All the others are skinned, dead, or have fled with only the very small or fast making their way out without harassment. The snowshoe hare is half-skinned, with flesh hanging off their back. The rock dove and whip-poor-will work to keep the flesh together while the eastern mole chews a poultice out of herbs and berries. The ovenbird has shed their skin, working with the owl to remove arrows.

“It’s the mayflies what did this.” says the pygmy shrew, “Them coming around so much brings the bad juju.”

“They wish they could. They can’t even _see_ us.” snorts the brown rat.

“Discussing the mayflies is doing none of us good.” argues the veery, “We have to leave. We got no choice now.”

“Leave to where?” asks the rock dove, “Ain’t no nobles gonna have us around.”

“There are other options.” The owl controls the conversation, keeping the survivors from unmanageable panic. “We can live on human land—disguising ourselves in plain sight. The city is the best place.”

The owl stretches a wing, craning their large head toward the east. Beyond the stinking landfill and the dangerous junkyard are the rest of the human city—a haze of lights and pollution filling the air.

Jafaris inhales sharply. “That’s out of Seelie territory. It’s courtless and Unseelie the further east you go.”  

“Until you hit the countryside, that is.” adds the whip-poor-will.

“Moonfolk are our friends as much as nobles are.” grumbles the brown rat, “They won’t bother with skinning. Everyone knows how mad their bunch can be.”

“Mad but not organized.” The owl offers, “Unseelie won’t do a wild hunt on us like our own scouts. If we keep to our ways and not meddle in theirs, things should get along. They have their own worries rather than bothering lowlies. Unlike the scouts, there’s nothing in it for them.”

“There is…the _other_ alternative…” the snowshoe hare whispers.

No one speaks, because every lowly knows what the alternative is. There are always the harsh, mean seasons that no one can survive without a proper roof over their head, or feuds that drive lowlies into hiding behind gilded gates. It’s the unspoken thing among lowlies that no one ever wants to think about…but that does not mean it is to be immediately denied. There are benefits to be a ‘kept’ fae...but that does not mean every drop of benefit is met with a dunghill of disadvantage.

“How many of us know the Unseelie talk? Or living in the cities?” Jafaris adds to the mounting silence, “Most of us have never left these woods.”

But Jafaris has. He dared not go close to the cities, for even a learned fae like him knew better than to cross Unseelie. He would rather face his own shadows and demons amongst the sun-kissed beauty of the Seelie nobility, than face the foreign horrors that the Unseelie would have for him. A lowly’s life has taught Jafaris many things and one of the golden rules is to remain with the evils you know, rather than taught another upon you.

While Taccarra entertains the idea of the owl flying them across the wasteland, Jafaris retreats into the cave and sleeps on the pile.

There is no food to be found in the winter so he does not bother searching. He wears his skin and leaves the cave, moving east from the forest. His memory of the Seelie Court can’t be forgotten. Every fae knows the direction of where their courts meet, whether they want to or not.

He watches the human traffic, crossing between the cars. They can’t see him, nor would they hit him, but still the smell and noise raise the hackles of his fur. He moves from the highway, crossing yet another rode and following his innate sense. His magic is not plentiful or useful but Jafaris is still fae. He still knows where _home_ is, no matter how vague a sense of that word is.

The Seelie Court is in a park, miles from where the forest is. Jafaris makes the trip, although hunger gnaws at him the entire time. He makes his way through the park and sees the human vagabonds are doing the same thing as he is—making their trips and scavenging for cans. If they see him, they will see the hint of movement and perhaps an animal, but they will never be sure what it is and the image will fade quickly from their mind.

For humans, fae are only shadows.

The entrance of the Seelie Court is hidden behind barricades, preventing curious hikers and sightseers from venturing into dangerous territory. Jafaris climbs over the metal, venturing into the valley hidden under the shade of trees and thick bushes. In the bushes, he sheds his skin and finds discarded clothes lying on the ground outside. The clothes are a courtesy on the part of the Seelie Court, demanding that even the most naturalistic fae clothe themselves in its presence.

Jafaris ties the green, gold, and pink kente cloth around his waist. It’s an unfavorable color combination but its one of the few not completely ragged or too feminine for his tastes. Then the raccoon fae keeps his head down as he walks the moss-filled path into the Seelie Court’s foyer.

The foyer is a large circular tunnel, leading into other avenues. There are several waiting areas for various guests and their escorts. By each entrance are Seelie guards, wearing the best armor and in King Sheba’s golden colors. The walls are carved with mid-relief, depicting fae on horseback as they head into battle with the King Sheba at the head of the army. The mid-relief of the army charging toward the Sun Gate. The gate is made of gold and blue glazed bricks, full of bas-relief of fae gods from the homestead—decorated with lapis lazuli and other gems. The gateways are painted gold, for actual gold would be too soft and malleable for protecting the court. Past the doors is the inner court: a place Jafaris will never see.

Instead, Jafaris sits with the others who have no hopes of entering the inner court. There are the petitioners and social activists seeking audience with nobles, the merchants sells their wares, the church goers handing out fliers for their specific cult branches worshipping so-and-so, the mothers of bastards and aristocrat half-sibling seeking alimony, and the freelancers.

The Seelie Court allows no outright begging. Instead, it allows the freelancers that live from hand to mouth. Most are poor artisans offering paintings, singing, dancing, and any skill but underneath that is the true source of their income.

Jafaris sits with the other freelancers and pretends he is just like him: a starving artist with visions in their head and little money in their pockets. Out of work thespians chat with acrobats about the merits of tragedies versus comedies while they pass around a metal pail of recycled paper and writing utensils. They each take their turns writing their name, trade, and prices. The pail is another gift from the court, meant to encourage freelancing.

Jafaris writes _Jafaris: Copyist, Sunfolk & Mayfly _and no other details. He even uses childish handwriting and the lowly words for things, so he appears as dim as possible. The smarter the lowly, the more trouble tends to come their way.

Then Jafaris waits. He spends the day inside the foyer or outside looking for food. The cooking staff come out of at lunchtime, offering the freelancers burnt food and leftovers that are going to the garbage anyways. Its not much after everyone takes their share, but Jafaris hasn’t eaten in a few hours. He feels hot and is most likely developing a fever from the arrow wound. Having little food in him can’t be helping the situation.

Jafaris makes conversation with a Loveland frog. She has wrinkly orange-yellow skin and black eyes. She talks at length about being a popcorn girl at the barefoot theaters but how that doesn’t pay the bills. Jafaris nods politely, talking about how the rise of literacy leaves little room for a reader and copyist. They’re both lying but it puts them at ease.

Some of the freelancers get picked up. The Loveland frog gets picked up by a noble looking for someone to cater at a party. She must be well aware of what kind of party it is, because she has the nervous smile of someone preparing to walk into a burning building.

Jafaris is ignored for the most part. Glanced over and studied like day-old meat. He’s too hungry and skinny, trying not to appear desperate but the bags under his eyes must be too obvious to the casual flesh buyer. He begins to drift into his own world, thinking of the last time he was here in the Seelie Court’s foyer and eventually thinks of the times before that. He remembers learning letters by firelight, on cold nights when there was no fear of being hunted. The large encampment where lowlies could gather and treat each other like a true community—how lowlies lived on the homestead, speaking their own cant and keeping to the old dances and songs.

Jafaris sees Lord Selvans enter the foyer. He walks through the decorated hall, speaking with the guards there and the nobles that follow his path. His eyes lock with Jafaris but neither say a word. Jafaris quickly puts him out of his mind, keeping to his task. He does not have food at home, so there is no point in leaving now. It is either wait here or camp in the bushes with the other vagabonds.

It’s after hours of sitting and the foyer turning cold with winter air leaking in that Jafaris receives the proper attention. A yemaja lord approaches him, wearing the most popular fashions of the Seelie. Their skin is dark, dotted with scales and gills flared on the side of their throat. Her hair is shoulder-length dark curls, held away from her eyes with a beaded headband. Her lips and eyes are adorned with blue kohl and white markings on dark flesh. She smells of sea salt.

Jafaris sees the yemaja and thinks of the Floridian archipelago their people have owned since colonization, eating tortoises and tourists alike.

“Oh ho,” chuckles the yemaja, “I haven’t seen you in quite some time, freemartin.”

Jafaris does not run or scowl. He trains his face to that of pure neutrality, refusing to move from where he is. He searches the yemaja’s face, questioning where he has seen them before.

“Don’t recognize me?” the yemaja continues, “I remember when Lord Windwagon was showing you off. You disappeared some time after that. Keeping busy with what you have of your lifespan?”

Jafaris does not grit his teeth. He schools his body language, maintaining his neutrality. He stands, looking into the yemaja’s bright blue-green eyes. In them, he sees sunlight on the ocean waves.

“I’m never one for stagnation. I like to move about whenever possible.” Jafaris says, “I’ve picked up a few more trades and I’d like to practice them. Don’t want to get too rusty.” He looks around the foyer, hoping to get the attention of the other lords ambling about.

“And what do you practice now? You must not be doing too well at it.” continues the yemaja, “Are your hands even stained with ink from your workings?”

Jafaris holds up his right hand, ink free but still dirty from the years of digging through dirt for roots and grubs. “Ink isn’t necessary nowadays. Ballpoint pens do the same job with far less fuss.”

The yemaja takes Jafaris’ hand, looking at the dirty claws. Even without his skin on, Jafaris’ hands are still that of a raccoon with rough skin meant to resist water. The nails are always long, unmanageable and quick to grow even after clipping.

“Still the hands of a beast,” the yemaja says, “but I bet they could still do work. How is your schedule for tonight?”

The yemaja’s grip digs into Jafaris’ hand. He feels the cold metal on her rings and thinks of the where she could have possibly seen him. Jafaris tries to pull the hand back.

“I’m preoccupied. Maybe another time.” Jafaris says.  

The yemaja does not release him. She moves in close, whispers in his ear, “Really now? Do you have much of a choice, freemartin?”

Hunger digs into Jafaris, but his self-preservation instinct makes the choice for him.

“Yes,” he says, louder, “and my choice is no.” He opens his teeth, showing fangs. “You’re _hurting_ me.”

Jafaris knows he can kick up a fuss. At best, he’ll be thrown out the foyer but he’ll have time to get away from the yemaja. At worse, the yemaja will hunt him down and he’ll have to spend the rest of the night running. He would rather tolerate that than abide the yemaja.

“Excuse me.” Jafaris knows the voice all too well. He looks over the yemaja’s shoulder and sees Selvans standing behind him. Selvans dresses as he always has: in his legionnaire armor and cape, decorated with military medals and badges. “You seem to be harassing one of my lowlies.”

The yemaja gives a look and steps away, deferring to Selvans. The yemaja is only a minor lord, lacking the honors that Selvans has earned in the field.

“I see.” The yemaja bows and their hair sprinkles salt water on the earthen floor. “Good luck to you, Lord Selvans, but do be cautious. Jafaris has a history of dining and dashing like all pests.”

“As you say.” Selvans says but his emerald eyes are on Jafaris.

Jafaris says nothing. He looks to Selvans with hungry brown eyes, ignoring the exhaustion in his bones and the fear from brushing off the yemaja.

“Come.” is all Selvans says, “It’s late and I require you.”

Jafaris still does not speak. He follows the lord out of the Seelie Court, with his head held down only to keep up appearances within the foyer. Once they are outside and away from the entrance of the Court, the raccoon fae looks to the forest lord.

“What game are you playing at?” Jafaris asks.

“I’d hold your tongue if I were you. I have words that would benefit you to hear.” Selvans says. His eyes are distant and uninterested in what goes around them in the park. It is late at night and the usual human visitors are gone, with the park gates officially closed. The humans that remain are still the vagabonds or those doing an unseemly business in the shadows.

Jafaris does not answer but does not run away either. The forest lord studies him for a moment and then teleports them back to his sod-home.

Selvan’s home is the same as it was before. The decorating has been at a standstill since Jafaris left his company on that snowy night. Dust has gathered in different places, showing that the chairs and the books have remained unmoved since his departure. Half-finished wood projects are scattered on the ground, on different tarps: a cabinet without shelves, boxes without lids, a beer mug without a handle, and a candle holder without candles. Most of the sawdust has been swept up while the rest remains on tarps around these incomplete ventures.

Jafaris is not interested in interrupted projects. He looks to the bottles of wine on the table, which are the only thing finished in the den. Selvans opens another bottle and pours himself a drink. He sits in his chair and looks to Jafaris. After a minute of silence, Jafaris sits and looks to the lord.

“If you’ve invited me to a pity party, I’d at least like to know its cause.” Jafaris says.

Selvans reaches into his coat and pulls out a paper. He slides it to Jafaris who studies the small text.  

“Your lessons are rudimentary but I got the essentials of it.” Selvans says, “For a lowly, you are an adequate teacher. I’m surprised you were never hired in the public schoolhouses.”

“What is this paper to me?” Jafaris growls.

Selvans swirls his alcohol, watching the wine move about.

“It pertains to the land, or rather, this forest.” Selvans answers, “The humans are demolishing it.”

Jafaris’ heart stutters in his chest. His mouth goes dry and in the privacy of the home, he lets such feelings show. Selvans is roughly half a glass deep into the wine. If he continues, Jafaris doubts he will even remember what else went on.

“What for?” Jafaris demands, “There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just a dingy little forest! The trees aren’t sick, we don’t have vermin or too many bugs--”

“They are expanding their landfill.” Selvans continues, “This forest lies at its very edge. Some mayflies have been protesting the development but it went through. They’re going to start demolishing in a week or so. I tried to appeal to King Sheba about relocation but..” He pauses again, stares at the wine. “As the land has been unoccupied for more than two generation, it is no longer ‘mine’ in the legal aspect.”

“That’s ridiculous! You were at war--”

“What I tell you is as the King Sheba dictates,” says Selvans with finality, “and it may as well be so, for the landfill has taken most of what was ours. What remains is this…measly patch…”

His words drift off, like leaves on the wind. His deep green eyes are full of pain at everything that had been lost all while he was at war. The only thing that kept him from being lowly were the centuries long history behind him.

“But you are still tied to it.” Jafaris says, “Therefore, the land remains yours in the magical aspect.”

“I am only tied to what remains,” Selvans gestures to the cellar, “and what remains is but a shadow.” He continues gazing at Jafaris and finally puts down the wine glass. “For you displaced lowlies, there is land elsewhere. Across that wasteland and one of those human roads is convention land. I’ve spoken to the owl and they have agreed to ferry those of you there if you wish.”

Jafaris shakes his head and tries not to think of the shock from the suggestion. 

“Lowlies need no aristocrat favors.” He says.

“Lowlies are _part_ of an aristocrat’s land!” Selvans insists. His teeth are clenched as he quickly speaks, “The land is not made just of an aristocrat’s home, his animals, his house fae, but his lowlies as well. In better times, they were our spies, our messengers, the ones who raised bastards, judged our land’s health, and added to its value! To go away from such traditions…” He sighs. “I thought things would be fine as I left. I was the eighth child and of no consequence to the rest of the…family…” He stops, eyes briefly misting before he continues. “This is the least I can do.”

“And you?”

Selvans does not answer.

“What will _you_ do, Lord?” Jafaris insists.

“Do not call me ‘Lord’!” Selvans snaps, “I’m no more lord than you are a maiden.”

Words had failed Selvans at court and so they could not bring the forest lord out of his bitter mood. He returns to his wine, draining the glass.

Jafaris is never one for sitting around. Nobles are of words but lowlies are fae of action. He leaves the chair and approaches the forest lord. He climbs into his lap, ignoring Selvans’ protests. He tries to push the raccoon fae away, but his fingers are clumsy and his attempts weakened. Jafaris kisses the lord and cradles his arms around Selvans’ neck.

“A maiden is never what you wanted.” Jafaris says.

Selvans leans back in his chair, looking at the cracked cement ceiling.

“And yet I’ve no interest in you, maiden or otherwise.” Selvans says.

“Are you serious?” Jafaris growls, “Don’t tell me you’ve grown nobler in our time apart and want to maintain my ‘honor’.”

Selvans smiles dryly. “You think I would fear to ‘sully’ you? Perish the thought.” He tilts his head. “I’m more perturbed that you think to throw yourself at my feet, like you would for those perverted lower lords. It’s not in your nature to do so.”

“How would you know?” Jafaris folds his arms. “I wish to do this with you.”

“It is more like you fear exposure and starvation.”

“True,” I argued, “but there is such a thing as _two_ truths.”

Selvans finally pushes Jafaris away so he can stand. He walks away, rubbing his temples.

 “I’m in no mood to entertain, verbally or otherwise.” Selvans approaches his bed, not looking at the raccoon fae. “Sleep where and when you like. In time, this place will be nothing but a memory.”

Jafaris huffs and climbs besides the forest lord. Selvans does not embrace him. He stares at the ceiling as the smaller fae wraps his skinny limbs around him. He shudders and eventually, some of his resolve gave way and Selvans wraps a large arm around me. The candles went out and the two were in the dark. Outside, the snow fell and the wind howls. The cellar door shakes with each harsh gust of winds.

“Soon,” Selvans whispers in the dark, “soon…this will all disappear.”

“But what a disappearance it will be.” Jafaris says.

Selvans does not comment. He feigns sleep although Jafaris knows he is very much awake. The two remain, not speaking, simply holding each other.

 

The humans move quickly in their usual pattern, for Jafaris is no stranger to their destructions. They mark the trees. They bring their machines and uniformed men. They line them up along the forest edge like doomed sentinels.

Fae pour out the communal forest, ferried by the owl or making their escape for elsewhere. Lowly families break apart and are remade as children pair off. The abandoned join together to form their own families. Everyone moves on and soon it is Selvans and Jafaris that remain.

“You have to go.” Selvans says on the last day, “There’s nothing for you here, Jafaris.”

The cellar home has never been comfortable but in these last days, there is a forced coziness. There is no bothering with the pretention of cleaning or repairing because in due time it would not matter. The two live like lowlies, squatting in the abandoned home of dead nobility. Selvans remains in bed for most of the time, running a high temperature and coughing wetly into a handkerchief. Jafaris enjoys high quality wine and the food stored in ancient jars. He dines on pickled onions and drinks liqueur he could never afford.

“Come with me.” Jafaris says once again.  

Selvans groans and not just from the conversation.  

“Selvans, forsake the land. Come with me.” Jafaris slides to his bedside, egged on by alcohol and knowing the end is close. He looks into the sunken eyes of the forest lord. “The life of a lowly is no different from living on a battlefield.”

“True,” Selvans says with a bitter smile, “but here is the secret, dear Jafaris: I hate war. Killing other fae for the sake of land and tribute…its all politics and air. It matters nothing. I went to war because I wanted a name for myself. The eighth son who would have nothing left but madstone pennies…” He shuts his eyes. “The other lands mean nothing to me. I will become nothing without this land. To uproot…it’s hard to explain to you. You can go _anywhere_. You can do that.”

“You can rebuild...” Jafaris whispers but knows in his bones that no promises can pull Selvans from his resolution.

Selvans can not be moved and soon Selvans will not move or speak at all. He enters a slumber, only moving when coughing shook his body and he spat up blood-tinged sputum. Getting him to eat soon transforms into an impossible chore. Selvans lies on the bed and Jafaris remains.

The owl is the only one lingering in the forest. Jafaris leaves the cellar door often open to let in air and light in the dark underground. One crisp morning, the owl hops in. They walk, wearing their feathery skin, observing what they see.

“You are still _here_ , Jafaris?” asks the owl.

Jafaris does not answer. He wipes Selvans’s sweaty brow.

“The bulldozers will be coming in an hour.” continues the owl, “Taccarra is waiting for you. She even found a comfortable place. With how long you’ve waited, all the best places are taken.”

“Will he die?” Jafaris whispers.

The owl hops onto the bed, scrutinizes with smelling Selvans’ condition.

“Could I move him from this bed? Could I make him a lowly so that he may live?” Jafaris asks.

“What you ask is something done without his consent. He’ll hate you for it.” the owl answers, “Would you be willing to risk that for someone you love?”

“I don’t love him,” Jafaris says and honesty rings true in his words, “but he is…a friend and it’s our way to treasure such things. I would _like_ to see him live. He is a noble, but he is worth saving.”

“We would like many things in our lifetime.” The owl ponders the raccoon fae’s words and preens their feathers. Then they say, “I tell you this now: he cannot be moved. Not only does he wish not to be moved, but neither you nor I have the strength to do so. He has not forsaken this land and it will not give him up. He may die”--the owl’s eyes slowly shut--“or he may not. The land is a noble and the noble is the land. For a fae as old as he, he must pull up roots entrenched further than most trees go. He has been bound for so long, that I doubt the land will _let_ him go.”

 “Is it that powerful?”

“Perhaps.”

Then the owl leaves the cellar, flying off. Jafaris is left alone with Selvans, with neither wanting to yield to the other. Selvans is silent and sick with fever and Jafaris waits for him to take the final breath. He makes his way through the cellar like any scavenger, grabbing what books and pickled foods he can for the trip. He waits in the cellar for the final moment.

The bulldozers come at dawn.

With the falling of the first tree, Selvans screams like a banshee smelling fresh blood. The noise cuts through Jafaris, shaking him into stillness. The fear seizes him and he can do nothing but sit in the corner as he watches Selvans suffer. The forest lord screams as what remains of his ancestral land is torn apart and every organ and bone with it.

Jafaris sits in the corner and prays. Lowlies have no named gods, only the forces of nature and the things that cannot be changed. Still, he pleads with them to not take one of his friends. After so many things have been taken, it is a little late to expect such things…but still, he prays. He suffers through the maddening sound as the human machines consume everything.

Then there is silence. The machines are dormant and Selvans is still.

Jafaris moves from the corner and goes to the bed. Selvans is twisted upon himself like a dead spider, limbs snapped and tangled. His olive skin is mottled, tainted with a sickly blue-green and there are deep scars on his flesh and blood and hair under his nails from clawing at himself in pain. His death had been nothing but suffering and Jafaris could do nothing to ease it.

Jafaris covers him with the stained bed sheet and creeps out the cellar.

The sun sets over the emptiness. The trees are gone and only the hulking machines remain, casting long shadows. Jafaris feels small in their presence—a fly amongst the human’s dragons. The human highway is bright and loud as ever and there is little evidence of the forest ever existing. Jafaris looks toward the landfill and the junkyard behind that, full of hulking tower of garbage and nothing the humans want.

He hears laughter. Jafaris thinks it is his mind until he pinpoints its location: the cellar.

Jafaris’ heart threatens to leap out of his mouth. He is hearing breathing and the stench of death has not faded…but something moves in the shadows. The corpse that was Selvans has moved from the bed, although it has sloughed off leaves and antlers streaked with blood. Something is hunched in the shadows, pale as a corpse drowned in ice water.

“Selvans?” Jafaris whispers.

Laughter is the answer.

“Oh, Jaffy…” The voice is grated, as if some wispy fae had spent the last century swallowing glass. “Look what its done to me…”

What steps out of the shadows is not Selvans, not even by any stretch of imagination. It is something… _other._ What remains of Selvans are discarded on the soiled bed and floor—luxurious black hair, bloodied shed antlers, and the plants and moss wilted and dead. Instead there is this hideously pale creature with mottled hair in harlequin colors and clawed hands and feet, tainted black. It is a jagged creature and hanging from its back are layers of melted plastics. It smells of burnt chemicals and gasoline. Blood runs down its face and into one of its black eyes. It has three of them, with the three bleeding freely: newly formed.

The creatures smiles at Jafaris.

“What? Got nothing to say to your old pal, Jaffy?” The creature laughs. It spreads it large claws, still grinning. “Wow, you’re always begging to get a word in edgewise and now you’ve gone silent. Really, Jaffy. Honestly.” It licks its lips with a long, serrated tongue—segmented like an insect’s underside. “You were the last fae I’d think to be _dumbstruck_ over this.”

Jafaris’ mind cannot handle any of this. He does not know if it is the stench of the creature or the sight, but he runs. As he runs, he puts his skin back on and becomes the frightened animal once more.

The creature does not stay in the cellar.

“Oh, is this a game?” calls the creature, “It’s going to be hard to play hide and go seek in this place! Wow!” The creature laughs again, “The mayflies really did a number here! Amazing!”

Jafaris runs through the landfill, trying to hide amongst the piles of filth. He tries to find solace and hopes the creature cannot easily see him, but still it continues jabbering.

“Ya know, I could get used to this. It ain’t so bad really.” The creature continues. “Jaffy, c’mon! We’d have so much fun together! We’re both landless now, or at least I think we are. We’ll be _great_ together!” 

Jafaris does not take chances with demons, known or unknown. He moves into where the landfill crosses into the junkyard, finding the shell of a car. He climbs inside and goes still, hoping the creature is not powerful enough to see him. The creature does not remain in the area long. It explores its territory, laughing and jabbering to itself until dawn comes.

Jafaris is swallowed by darkness. He dreams of Selvans and wonders if those months with him had been nothing but a dream, replaced by a horrific reality.

 

When Jafaris wakes up, Taccarra is gently prying him from the car. The raccoon fae struggles, still wearing his skin and frightened that her hands are that of the creature’s.

“Shh. Its alright now, Jafaris.” Taccarra says in her soothing sing-song voice, “I got you now.”

“The beast…” Jafaris can only whisper, “…the beast is coming…”

Taccarra nods, dutiful and polite as ever, and continues along her way. There is a knapsack tied to her as she continues her scavenging in the daylight, unseen by the humans.

Jafaris says nothing as the snake fae cares for him. He remains in a fever, consumed by what he has seen and the nightmares raking at him. He speaks of only the beast in the wasteland, only seen by him and doubted by others.

All they know is that Lord Selvans—the last of the Selvans line—is dead. The land that he once ruled has been given over the humans and that hideous creature of progress. They say Jafaris went mad with grief after losing his home, his precious writing and books burned to a crisp.

The snake, now only Taccarra in this new lowly home, argues that Jafaris is not mad. Only ill.

The owl says nothing. They perch at the top of their weeping willow and look out in the direction of the wasteland. Their eyes see nothing and yet there is a feeling—an indiscernible feeling even to the fae—that the forest lord is not dead.

The forest has merely changed.

 


	2. Folkloric Footnotes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here are some folkloric footnotes for those curious about the locations, history, and fae races of North America.

**[1]** **Connecticut River:** The Connecticut River is the longest river in New England and also one of the widest. As it was one of the first places to first be settled by Dutch colonists, it is home to many local legends from cavemen to ghostly sightings.

**[2]** **King Sheba:** Ruler of the Seelie Court, named for the biblical Queen of Sheba. Biblical lore is highly important in American folklore and the Queen of Sheba was a common character in biblical epics during the early days of Hollywood, albeit a ‘whitened’ version. Like most fae traditions, title is not an indicator of gender.

**[3] Seelie, Unseelie:** Although these classifications of fairies come from Irish and Scottish folklore most cultures categorize their spirits, gods, etc. As American folkloric culture is heavily influenced by the immigration of the Irish during the 19 th century, it makes sense such a term would become ubiquitous. Due to the multinational nature of North America, the courts have many different names and titles they all answer to: Sunfolk (Seelie) and Moonfolk (Unseelie) is one of them.

**[4] Seelie alphabet, Unseelie characters:** Runic alphabets and secret ciphers have been attributed to the supernatural and witchcraft since the 16 th century so it makes sense for fae to have their own language. Like Chinese and Japanese, these languages borrow heavily from each other and include many loanwords. Most educated fae speak and write both while the uneducated speak pidgin.

**[5] Lord Selvans:** In Etruscans mythology, Selvans was a god of the woodlands. Little is known about him as the Etruscans were assimilated into the Roman Empire. Most fae nobles like to name their children after important ancient deities the same way Americans like to name children after saints and angels.

**[6] Mayfly:** The common nickname for humans, taken after the short-lived insect. It also refers to how easily humans fall into fae traps, as mayflies are the models for fly-fishing lures. Mayflies are also popular for another reason: ever-thrifty lowlies eat them since they contain a lot of protein.

**[7] Broadsheets:** A long time ago American newspapers were huge and crammed with letters. Most traditional fae journals still prefer this design, getting as much information as possible onto the page with few pictures.

**[8] _Hill-cities and cramped caverns_ :** Folkloric and legendary creatures living underground is a common theme in American folklore, from mole-people to aliens. This is likely a holdover from Irish and Scottish lore.

**[9] Taccarra’s gender:** This is really more of a nod to biology rather than folklore, but it’s difficult to tell gender on reptiles. Unless the species has specific markers, the only other method is rather invasive.

**[10] _Angels and devils’ lovely mischief_ :** One theory on the origin of fae proposed by Christian mythologists during the Medieval and Renaissance periods was that fae were a class of angels not good enough for Heaven but not evil enough for Hell. Another theory proposed they were the offspring of fallen angels and devils. There’s no real consensus on which theory is correct.

**[11] Huge Molasses Tank Explodes in North End:** This is actually a true story. The Great Molasses Flood of 1919 was a huge disaster and well known industrial accident.

**[12] Silver thread:** As in most cultures, fae are weak to iron and silver objects. However, unlike their European and African cousins, some American fae are also immune or highly tolerant of it.

**[13] Minstrel show:** Minstrel shows, or minstrelsy, was a racist form of entertainment popularized during the 19 th century in America to the detriment of African-Americans. Like African-Americans, lowlies are also the victim of similar lampooning.

**[14] Freemartin:** Also called free-martin or martin heifer, this term refers to a infertile female mammal with masculinized behavior and features. It’s common in cattle and in cow-focused America, it’s a well-known occurrence for ranchers. For fae, its very close to being called a “tr*nny”.

**[15] Selvans’ messages:** Messages being written in branches, leaves, and other bits of nature is another attribution to American folklore. This may come from a combination Native American and African lore since its commonly seen there.

**[16] The Cape:** Cape Cod, the eastern and most oceanic part of Massachusetts, has its own folklore pertaining to the beaches, oceans, and marshlands. It is well known for its expensive beachfront property and being the most weather vulnerable part of the state, hampered by constant floods and hurricanes.  

**[17] Rip Van Winkle:** Another characters of American folklore, this character is well known for falling asleep for a hundred years and then waking up in the future.

**[18] _he sleeps under the earth:_** Sleeping hero legends are universally held mythology trope, from King Arthur to the aforementioned Rip Van Winkle and Emperor Norton.

**[19] sea hags:** Sea hags are very common in American folklore particular to Maine and other watery parts of New England.

**[20] marsh people:** Another piece of Maine and New Hampshire lore. Marsh people were said to inhabit the vast marshlands near the ocean and spend a lot of their time drowning people.

**[21] skinning:** Removing one’s skin is another folkloric aspect common to selkie’s and other ‘supernatural wives’. Fae whose skin has been removed will grow back a new one…if they don’t die of exposure and infection first.

**[22] cardiff giants:** One of the many famous archaeological hoaxes featured at P.T. Barnum’s circle, the cardiff giants were said to be the remains of the giants mentioned before the Flood in the Bible.

**[23] kente cloth:** This cloth is from Africa but its best associated with African-Americans as it was made popular during the 1970s’ Black Pride movements. Fae likely enjoy it because of the many meaning you can send with just a change in color and pattern, which must save them from doing a lot of glamourie related work.

**[24] yemaja:** The name of a goddess in African mythology but the word also refers to any mermaid or mermaid-like being. Most mermaid and aquatic fae in North America immigrated from Africa, likely following boats during the Middle Passage.

**[25] Floridian archipelago:** Also called the Florida Keys, these islands are located off the coast of southern Florida. Its home to many unique animals and, in my head, seems like the perfect place for merpeople to hang out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading some original short fiction. Hopefully, this will continue to be a series if people are interested. Leave a kudos, comment, or check out my tumblr (http://bad-imagination.tumblr.com/tagged/Zee%27s-OCs) for more original stuff. 
> 
> Also, this is the reedited version that contains some better grammar and folkloric footnotes. 
> 
> \-- Zee

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Whatever in the Closet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11783952) by [ColonelScience](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColonelScience/pseuds/ColonelScience)




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